Haphazardly on top is a shining, pearlescent white book that says Mr. & Mrs. in delicate silver letters. The weight in my chest grows heavier, feels like it’s pulling on my lungs, and I swallow hard.
I should put it back without looking, and I know it. I came to her and offered a blank slate. I’m the one who wanted to forget everything and start over. I owe her my ignorance.
I open it anyway, already hating myself.
The very first page proves me right. It’s them, in front of the altar, deep in a kiss. He’s wearing black and she’s wearing a white strapless dress, hair piled stop her head, arms and shoulders blank.
I kneel on the floor. I stare, the weight of jealousy heavy in my chest, and I hate him. I hate him for swooping in and getting what I couldn’t have. I hate him for whatever he did to make her divorce him. I hate him for haunting her life still, with this album and the sock in the closet and the cocktail shaker she still has.
I flip some pages. They’re just wedding pictures, but they’re hers, and I can’t stop myself. She’s happy, glowing, beautiful, and so, so young. I remember her this young. I remember her younger, the two of us just kids.
Under the photo book is more, and I put the book down, glance in. There’s a jewelry box. Photo frames. Tchotchkes, a name plate, a throw pillow, and I should stop. She’ll be back soon, and I know -- I know -- I’m not meant to see this.
Just as I’m putting the book back, the photo on top of the pile catches my eye: her and Nolan, standing in front of the fireplace, posing together. His arm’s around her shoulders and hers are around his waist, and she looks so perfectly happy and content that it shakes me to the bone.
I put the book in, shove the box back into the closet, take some towels. I shut the closet door and then walk back into the living room, stand there, and look at the fireplace.
Right there. They stood right there, so happy, posed for a picture. If I try hard enough I think I can see their footprints still on the floor, no matter how much I don’t want to.
Then I force myself to turn around, head into the bathroom, and take a shower.
“Mind if I join you?” I call across the rooftop patio, letting the door swish shut behind myself.
Jesus, the floor is cold, and I’m barefoot. I wish I’d known to bring sandals, but I didn’t think to do so on a skiing vacation and Delilah forgot to warn me.
“Of course not!” says one of the women. “Come on in, the water’s great!”
I set my beer down, pull off the fluffy white robe that I got from the condo, hang it up and get to the hot tub as fast as humanly possible. The sun’s fully behind the mountains now and the temperature’s dipped even further from today.
“We were just debating whether we should get a massage or go make margaritas,” the other says as I ease myself into the water, beer once more in hand. “What would you do?”
I settle into a seat across from them, find myself smiling. They’re both wearing bikinis, both probably in their forties, both reasonably attractive. Both watching me attentively in a way I recognize so I stretch one arm along the rim of the tub, take a sip of my beer, look from one to the other.
“What kind of massage and what kind of margarita?” I ask. They both laugh, even though it wasn’t funny. The one on the right leans her head on one hand, stretching out her neck.
“Swedish, and on the rocks with a salt rim,” she says.
“I’d probably go margarita, then,” I admit.
“Told you,” she says to the other woman, and they both laugh again. Then she leans forward, holds out one hand. “Hi, I’m Amy.”
“Kate.”
I introduce myself. We make small talk about all the bullshit you’d expect: ski conditions, the weather, what there is to do in a ski resort town at night. It’s nothing, and it’s going to stay nothing, but deep down I know sparked interest when I see it, and God help me, it makes me feel good.
I don’t want it to. I want the fact that these women are flirting with me to make me feel nothing, but the box in the closet sticks in the back of my mind and each smile, each laugh at nothing, each flirty look gives me the tiniest boost.
“Four brothers?” Kate is saying. “My gosh, you must be tough as —"
The door opens, and we all look over.
Delilah walks out, hair piled on top of her head, wearing a fluffy white bathrobe. I feel my face nearly split in two.
“—nails,” she finishes.
“Hey,” Delilah says, sounding breathless. “Oh, my God, it’s freezing out here.”
“You gotta move fast,” Amy advises. “Don’t think about it, just go!”
Delilah laughs. Shrugs off her robe, hangs it, kicks off her flip flops, rushes to the hot tub and my mouth goes dry.
She’s wearing a black swimsuit. It’s one-piece, the straps crossing over her back, the neckline plunging further than anything I’ve seen her wear since we’ve been dating. Her tattoos are vivid even in the fading lights: ocean and mountains, Kraken and vines, sinking ships. The clockwork heart, the swell of her breasts around it. The lace garters on each thigh, a swirl of stars around one, the roots of a tree snaking through the other. The way the elastic digs into the soft flesh of her hip. I imagine it under my palm and shudder despite the hot water.
The muscles in one thigh flex as she steps down with a soft oh, her arms out as she balances, then sinks slowly into the water until it bobs over her chest.
I want her. It’s that simple, one small fact at the center of a frenzied knot, so much looped and tightened around it that it seems complicated. Three words, eight letters, somehow enormous enough to blot out the sky.
I want her. I’ve always wanted her. I think I always will.
“Hey,” I tell her, snake an arm around her waist, kiss her. And kiss her.
I meant it to be a simple hello, darling kiss but I can’t seem to end it at the right spot. It’s longer, deeper, and when I finally pull back, I’m breathless. I clear my throat.
“This is Kate and Amy,” I tell her.
“Delilah,” she says.
“My girlfriend,” I offer, as if they didn’t know. They shake hands, across the hot tub. Delilah settles in next to me, her hair tickling my face, her hand settling on my leg.
“You know, Delilah, I have to tell you,” Amy says. “I don’t normally like tattoos but yours are beautiful. Did they hurt?”
Delilah just laughs.
“Yes,” she says. “Though not as much as you might think. Arms aren’t too bad, but I’ve got one right here —" she pushes herself out of the water slightly, points at the spot where the raven is, across her ribs, pale cleavage shining as water sluices off, “— and that hurt.”
“Ooh, I bet,” Kate says. “Is that the most painful spot?”
“I think feet are worse, or at least, that’s what people seem to have the most trouble with. I’m also a tattoo artist,” she explains.
Kate and Amy are fascinated, and I can’t blame them. Delilah’s fascinating. We talk tattoos, then piercings, then bad haircuts, and there’s something wonderful about watching Delilah work her magic on these two strangers. No wonder the tattoo shop has taken off.